John's Jacket
by ThingsThatNeedThings
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' JohnxSherlock fanfiction. When John sends Sherlock's coats to be cleaned, Sherlock needs a jacket.


**John's Jacket**

SherlockxJohn

(BBC Sherlock)

"Oh, stop moping," John scoffed, trying not to giggle. "It needed a wash."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock hissed, hugging his knees to his chest and staring into nothingness. "It was only a few chemicals and blood stains; it had seen worse."

Watson didn't dare think about that, shrugging off the notion as Sherlock just being dramatic because he was annoyed at him. "The coat had to go to the dry cleaners, Sherlock, and that's final," he told him. John wore a smirk that irked Sherlock beyond anything – that smug "I won, you lost" kind of expression and it made Sherlock want to humiliate him… somehow. John seemed too proud of himself to be embarrassed now. "It'll be back soon."

"But in the mean time I have no coat. Do you expect me to leave the apartment without it?" the detective pressed. He sighed and glanced to the window with remorse, muttering, "It's cold outside…"

John licked his lip, quelling his desire to burst out laughing. Sherlock was only ever this… this… _soft_ around him; Lestrade, Donavon, Anderson, even Molly, had never heard Sherlock say the things John had heard. He remembered when Sherlock – a very frustrated Sherlock – had paced the kitchen until finally admitting he couldn't get the jam jar open. He remembered when he'd found his flatmate going crazy because he couldn't find his "favourite syringe" and how he always fiddled with the heating until it was exactly 24˚C throughout the apartment.

It was true to say he was specific, pedantic, and also spoilt. But John would never dare say it to his best friend (mainly because John knew he'd probably end up shoved in the fridge).

"Cold?" John mimicked, unable to resist teasing him a little.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Cold, John. It's when the temperature is relatively low to the temperature of the body, therefore causing blood to leave the extremities."

"And we wouldn't want that," John mumbled to himself. He blinked. _Did I really just say that? My God, no wonder people think I'm gay._

Sherlock made no comment. There was an awkward silence until John cleared his throat.

"Why do you need to leave the apartment anyway?" he asked, denting the tension.

Running a hand through his dark coils, he explained, "Thought I might go for a walk."

"A walk."

"A walk, John – it's when someone moves their legs in order to change location, and in this case for recreation."

John scowled. Sherlock grinned and raised his eyebrows, mockingly.

"And you're worried about a little bad weather? Sherlock, I've seen you endanger your life with swords, guns and Moriarty but you can't handle a bit of frost? Man up," he retorted, and smiled as Sherlock scoffed.

"Fine. I'll go for my walk," Sherlock agreed, "on one condition. You're coming with me."

John spluttered a laugh. "I'm not scared of winter, unlike some people… Deal. Besides, there's nothing good on TV anyway."

"There never is."

"Good point."

It _was _cold outside. John huddled tighter into his leather jacket as they walked, feeling the chill run up from his feet, numbing them and making his toes curl in a futile attempt to resist the cold. Sherlock seemed naked without his coat, and his scarf seemed lonely without it's partner-in-crime. The two really did make up the Sherlock Holmes look (Watson would have said the deer-stalker hat as well made him truly Holmes, but once again feared some strange, creative, cruel fate).

It was strange how Sherlock just clamped his jaw and said nothing now. He hadn't expected John to join him on his pointless escapade, and now felt almost out-witted. But he had a secondary plan – to test John's… reaction, shall we say.

John looked over at his tall partner; it was a stalemate, true. It was cold – Sherlock had won that part – but they weren't afraid of that – John was winning that part. But wasn't it a little odd that they seemed to be..?

_Nah, _John told himself. He glanced round again. It was like he could feel Sherlock's warmth radiating to him. It was like…

Sherlock was getting closer to him.

They walked side-by-side down the pavement, neither of them really paying attention to where they were going (Sherlock naturally knew, and John trusted the man beside him to take him somewhere interesting/dangerous no matter what), and John grew more and more aware that Sherlock was inching closer and closer to him. He didn't mind all that much, but he did wonder why and what Sherlock was after.

And then he figured it out.

"John, I'm cold," Sherlock complained quietly.

"Good," John replied quickly, not knowing what else to say. He knew this game that the consulting detective was playing, and he knew he would lose because of Sherlock's superior intellect meant he was already 14 steps ahead of John mentally, constantly… but Sherlock could also miss out some steps, and that was where John could trip him up and gain the advantage.

All in all, it was just a bit of fun, but John couldn't help being competitive.

And this time he would win.

_He wants my jacket, _John thought, rather smugly. _But I know he won't ask for it. He'll expect me just to give it to him. Not this time, Holmes. This time, you're going to have to beg…_

"John," Sherlock whispered, and John flinched slightly at the touch on his arm. "Maybe we should head back…"

"No," John decided. "You wanted your walk, so here we are."

Sherlock looked ahead for a moment, thinking, _Oh, smart. I know what you're doing… But wait – you know I know. You're… playing me? Oh, John…_

But Sherlock realised, with regret, that he had no solution to this one. Not a fun one, anyway. They could go back to 221B where it would be a stalemate. Or he could ask John to borrow his jacket and be warm and get his walk.

But he didn't want the walk really in the first place.

Ah well; it was just a bit of fun. Sherlock sniffed as he felt his pride slipping until humility. John tried not to gloat, because he knew – in any circumstances – that he had won. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Here," John cut in, before Sherlock could say anything. "Borrow my jacket."

Sherlock blinked. _I won and lost at the same time._

He blinked again. _John Watson, you are a genius._

John took off his jacket, shivering straight away but feeling warm with self-pride, and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders. He wriggled inside, blinked, then beamed widely. It held the scent of sweet sweat and shower gel and toast – an odd combination, but it was John.

Still, Sherlock stayed awkwardly close to John, making them both uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. Sherlock slipped his hand into John's, and both of their hearts felt a little warmer.


End file.
